Apathy
is a disease;
it spreads and
appears to be incurable.
Symptoms include
laziness and
recklessness and
shoulder shrugs and
dropping grades.

It's a lack of
caring for
everything and
it's a lack of
effort for
things previously exciting.

In high school,
it's senioritis.
In real life,
it's laziness.
To me,
it's a desperate cry
for help,
for motivation,
for attention, and
for love.

i miss you
and us,
our late night talks
followed with good morning texts;
the smiles,
the laughs,
even the disagreements;
most of all,
the feeling,
weightlessness,
security,
and comfort;
my distraction from the cruelty,
the neglect,
by changing,
improving,
fixing,
showing me beauty,
of the outside world,
and the world within.

kisses:
meant nothing
until you;
mean nothing
without you.

basorexia:
my lonely lips
begging for attention
from someone,
anyone.

desire:
wanting
my basorexia
to be cured by
your kiss.

Coffee keeps me awake at night,
and keeps the terrors at bay,
But childhood fears don't just lurk in the dark,
they are present even at midday.

As a young girl, I had hopes and dreams--
those of white gowns and comforting arms,
not only those of a man at the end of my aisle,
but also those of a father whose every cough is an alarm.

When I was ten, I said it aloud,
that one thing I feared the most--
that he wouldn't walk me down the aisle,
or be able to stand and clink his glass for our first toast.

Sometimes my father says he's fine,
but other times you know he thinks he's do.
I know he prays for me all the time,
but it's a little late since my nightmares are true.

nearly a year,
and there’s still butterflies,
a farm,
a reserve,
an aquarium,
a zoo,
the whole ****** animal kingdom,
released in
my heart,
making it beat,
from the stampede;
my stomach,
twisting it into knots,
from the innate wildness;
my lungs,
removing all the air,
from the murders upon
mobs upon
gackles upon
schools upon
herds.

how pathetic.

I miss being a kid
when words on a paper
was second nature,
And whenever I would rhyme
I could blow people's minds
But now I can't find the words
to pass the time,
Small talk.

Don't ask how the weather is.
It's great,
Because Mother Nature doesn't **** up,
unlike what you might think,
Louisiana,
California,
Thailand,
Natural Disaster.

That's what we want to claim to be,
But we're products of society,
culture,
and we root for to children to stop,
to grow up,
realize your dreams aren't what they seem,
Backup plans.

I never had any,
Now I don't have a go to,
because I was told I would go nowhere,
with paper and pen,
Poetry.

I miss being a kid.

I wish I could write lyrics
that went fine with chords and drums,
some words that make people feel
like they're the only one.
I want lines to form a verse
and a chorus
and a bridge;
some words catchy enough to echo
in cars
and down the street.

But instead of a hit song,
posted along with a selfie,
here I instead write ****** poetry.

Lips,
Corners turned upwards,
As they are softly pressed,
Against another gentle pair.
Part slightly,
Giggles slither out,
When tickled,
Aroused,
By a light breath.
Hands,
Intertwined,
Squeezing reassuringly,
Also encouragingly,
Move effortlessly,
To trace the structure,
And its importance,
Enticing the senses.

Done for,
Sealed the deal.

The easiest way to fall asleep
is with eyelids glued shut
by freshly fallen tears
from frustration or
from being so upset or
from nothing at all.

It's difficult though
when the mind is racing
with scenes of desire that
the heart beckons for but
couldn't bear to occur
in all actuality.

Sometimes it'll come
crashing like a wave,
and sometimes,
it won't at all.

Can I tell you a secret?
Can I whisper it in your ear?
I promise, my darling,
this is something you'll want to hear:

I dream about you
during the day and late at night.
I dream about you
but you're no where in sight.

Can I tell you a secret?
Can I whisper it in your ear?
Listen, darling,
won't you pass me a beer?

My body's growing hot,
and yours is ice cold.
Let us just lay together,
until the day is old.

Can I tell you a secret?
Can I whisper it in your ear?
Trust me, my sweet,
I will you love you, my dear.

My arms around your neck,
and your hands wrapped in my hair.
The way your tongue moves
just really isn't fair.

Can I tell you a secret?
Can I breath across your neck
the words of the things I dream about
when you're removing my dress?

My sister had to personify the days of the week, and as a child, I could see how that would be hard, because she hasn’t lived enough to know why--
Sunday has to wear tights to church, to cover the rug burns on her knees, and she woke up so early, to cover the bruises on her neck.

She hasn’t dreaded enough to know that–
Monday stares at herself in the mirror, rubbing her stomach, tilting her head, and hoping that her mother won’t ask her what she had for breakfast or her friends won’t notice she didn’t touch anything on her tray.

Nor has she had the opportunity to feel so mundane, so boring, like--
Tuesday as she taps her pencil like a metronome against a wooden desk, where initials of ex-lovers were etched into the surface.

And I’m not quite sure she’s felt the drag that--
Wednesday takes, with her heart fluttering because he touched her hand as he passed her the joint; nor has she felt the harsh exhale that Wednesday wheezes out so viciously.

She hasn’t felt the impatience and anxiousness that–
Thursday gets as she checks her underwear and downs yet another cup of orange juice, then clambering into her hot bath; she’s stopped taking her birth control for the month and can’t wait for Nature’s gift to arrive.

But she doesn’t truly understand the relief that–
Friday brings as she finishes her chores, going above and beyond for her ill mother who promises she won’t **** over if her daughter goes out for a crazy night on the town with her friends.

However, she might understand the laziness and lovability of Saturday.
Saturday likes the ocean on her feet, even with yesterday’s sand caked between her toes, and she forgets to wipe on the mat before charging into the hotel and jumping on the bed, before snuggling up under the covers, with the television set on, playing nothing but mindless soap operas or black and white movies.

do i haunt
your thoughts,
your dreams,
during the day,
late at night,
in the middle of class,
while you’re praying
to God above,
like you haunt me
constantly?

when you hear
my name,
or see my face,
does it fill you
with a hatred
for yourself,
a regret
for your decisions,
as well as
a desire and
a passion
for your loss?

if i don’t,
if it doesn’t,
i hate you
for moving on
while i’m stuck
pining.

Eighteen,
fairly innocent and naive;
you were the oldest person to ever kiss me,
on the lips.
With fingers interlocked or your arm around me,
didn't even hesitate to think there was a chance for this to be.
You said you were surprised,
that we sat on the bus
together, knees touching.
Never knew I'd like the feel of butterflies gracing my cheek,
my neck.

"Can I steal a kiss?"
It ain't stealing if you ask,
but it's the though that counts, right?

Seventy-two hours,
that's about it.
Kissed and hugged,
nothing else it seems.
What's so poetic about staring at a cellular screen
Constantly,
in some sort of anticipation,
for some smiley faces and flirty words
with approval and consent?
If I ****** up,
did something wrong,
if I bored you,
just let me try again.
I'm desperate for affection
and for your attention.

Stupid teenage heartbeat,
Stupid ******* crush.

have you ever
been saved?
it is bittersweet.
for a moment,
there is confidence,
strength,
preparation,
all behind fear,
loneliness,
pain.
then it’s gone,
because someone,
anyone,
steps in,
says something,
anything;
holds your hand,
holds you
back.
then you’re attached.

or better yet,
have you ever
been to that point,
where you needed
to be saved?

power flows
awkwardly through my veins.
you don't seem to

anticipate all of the
talent and knowledge I can bring
to the table.
easily you look over me,
never
taking an extra second to
include me into these crazy
opportunities that you all go on;
no one calls me first.

try to look at me when you talk,
only out of respect for

me, really.
eventually you'll beg me,

pleading for my
love and my company,
every day,
and I won't turn you away;
so why ignore me and interrupt me as
easily as you do?

i got a chance
to romance you
with words
but for once
i wanted
to romance you
with more.
this new feeling,
so unfamiliar,
brought fear;
in turn,
rejection.

i lost you
when i panicked
and pushed you
away;
an error,
a mistake.
i yearn,
so desperately yearn,
to fix,
to change,
because i regret
it having ever been made.

The Pretenders may walk a thousand miles,
and Michelle Branch would do the same,
but if I listened to either of them:
my legs would be sore,
and I'd probably cry,
or get picked up by a ******,
mugged and left to die,
so as romantic as the notion may be,
I'll hop in my car to see ya tonight.

I can't sleep alone, but your body doesn't feel like home.
I don't need you in this bed, putting thoughts into my head, causing me to hate myself,
and to put You on a higher shelf.
I guess I never quite understood, if you were truly bad or good, but when I'm laying all
alone,
that's when I really seem to know EXACTLY how I'm supposed to feel.

And none of this seems very real.

I never thought that I would sleep
alone,
but these blankets make a safer home
than your arms ever were to me.
Is this how it feels to be free?
'Cause I'm cold and tired and kinda sick and this sheet is itchy and awful thick, but its threads aren't anything quite like your beard that scratched my face at night.

And I don't mind the lumps in the mattress, because at least it's not you leaning in for another sloppy kiss.

you kissed Me at every red light--
driving around in the dead of night,
and you fell in love with the way I drive--
with one hand and a knee of the wheel,
but I fall in love whenever I blink My eyes,
and I just wanted to kiss the sky.

since the last time we laid in bed,
I've kissed a girl and a boy or two,
but it wasn't quite the same as you;
however the replacements had to do--
they still do.

you took me to a park--
lit up a bowl to get a high,
and then you push Me on the swings,
because I want to fly.

I love you; you love Me too,
but I need more, sorry.

And I melted in the beauty.

A kiss on the lips,
with hands on hips,
it really don't mean ****;
Because like a cigarette,
it'll only have control,
if submitted to.

However, like any addiction,
maybe it's best
to just not start anyways.

Here's another ****** poem
written on pages;
it'd be better to just throw 'em
in the trash.
Realizing it's hard to rhyme
and by the time there's a beat,
can't figure out where those words should be.

I like haikus, *****.
This poem won't be one though.
Five syllable line.